


Fever Dreams and Stranger Things

by travels_in_time



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Fever, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 08:36:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6111022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travels_in_time/pseuds/travels_in_time
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reese wakes up in a strange place, with an unfamiliar voice in his ear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fever Dreams and Stranger Things

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for inaccurate depictions of guns and CIA protocols, AKA "I made everything up".

"Mr. Reese?" The voice was in his ear, questioning. 

Had he fallen asleep at his post? No, that was wrong, he wasn't in the Army anymore. He was…he couldn't remember if he was on active assignment or not. He struggled to one elbow. "Reese here. Mission update?"

"Did I wake you, Mr. Reese? I apologize." The voice was dry, unfamiliar; he had no context for it, couldn't judge intent, but in his experience, the people on the other end of the comm lines didn't tend to apologize. He blinked, trying to focus. "We don't have a new number, if that's what you're asking."

He looked around, got a vague impression of space. Cloudy grey light, and vast stretches of emptiness. The voice was continuing. "Due to the snowstorm last night, the city's pretty much shut down. With any luck, our more violent offenders will delay their plans for a day or two."

An apartment. He was in an apartment, clean, bare, enormous, blurring at the edges of his vision. He couldn't maintain his balance suddenly, fell back onto the bed. Too open, too exposed, he needed cover…

"I was hoping to catch you before you left. I wanted to let you know there's really no point in coming in today, but I did think you'd be awake by now."

Where was he supposed to be coming in to? What city was this, this shut-down, snowed-in, grey city? What was his mission? Asking those questions--things which surely he should already know--would get him marked as a liability. Asking for a bit of clarification might fly under the radar, though. "Mission's on hold until further notice, sir?"

There was a slight pause before the voice resumed, a bit slower. He didn't know what he'd said wrong, but it had been noticed. "Mr. Reese. Do you know who I am?"

He didn't. Any more than he recognized this apartment, or this bed. Admitting any of those things seemed unwise; he went with the most likely option. "New handler. Agent…"

"Finch," the voice confirmed. "You might say that." The man on the other end of the line hesitated; when he spoke again, there was a softer tone to his voice, almost…concerned. "You sound ill. Are you running a temperature?"

The hair at the back of his neck was standing on end; his instincts were screaming at him. Handlers didn't sound like that. He stared up at the ceiling, closing his eyes when the spinning became unbearable. "I'm fine, Agent Finch." It was hard to think. Had he been drugged? "I don't think I've spoken to you before. Did they fly you in from D.C.?"

With his eyes closed, he was floating; it might have been only moments, it might have been minutes, before Finch responded. "Yes, but it was a slow trip. We were diverted, had to change planes in Atlanta."

"Atlanta's always good for a delay." With some effort, he rolled over; he'd seen a nightstand in his initial look around, and he opened the drawer and felt around without opening his eyes. His Glock was there, as he'd hoped. "If that's all, sir?"

Finch sighed. "Do you remember the conversation we had yesterday? I said you looked as if you were coming down with something, and you told me to stop worrying?"

He made a noncommittal noise. 

"I'll attempt to refrain from saying I told you so, but I can't promise success. Stay in bed, John. It'll take me some time to get things together, what with the weather, but I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Okay," Reese said agreeably. He rested the Glock beside himself, on the bed, but he didn't let go of it. 

**********************

He might have dozed, but only for a few minutes, he thought; the quality of the light hadn't changed noticeably. It took him longer than he wanted to swing himself up and out of bed. Everything hurt. He wondered what kind of beating he'd taken, and when. Probably when he was brought here. It didn't matter; he took one deep breath, packed the pain up, put it away. 

It didn't take long to clear the apartment. There really was no concealment. The bathroom was as bare as the rest of the place; one closet held suits that looked as if they'd fit him--nicer than any he'd ever owned, though. In another closet were weapons, enough for a siege. The weapons and the austerity said "safe house"; the suits made him wonder if this place was for a cover identity. But trying to remember was giving him a steadily worsening headache, and now a sudden onset of shivering hit him; he gave up. The fake Agent would give him answers soon enough. 

He propped himself up on the side of the weapons closet until the inconvenient shaking went away, and then chose a rifle with a targeting sight. The Glock he put in the waistband of his pants. Then he went and sat down on the floor, propped up in the corner made by the bed and the wall, facing the door. He'd meant to look out the windows, see if he could orient himself, but he didn't think he could stay on his feet that long; he felt limp, wrung out. As cold as he'd been in the closet, now he was sweating. He leaned his head back and drifted mindlessly, waiting.

************

"Mr. Reese?" The voice in his ear startled him awake. He grunted. "Your continuing radio silence is quite unnerving."

"Sorry, Finch," he replied evenly. "Don't have much to say."

"I'm at your building. Outside your door, in fact. I thought it wise to warn you before I barged in unannounced."

Reese raised the rifle. "Come in, Finch. Slowly."

The sound of the key in the lock, and then the door swinging open--slowly, as he'd ordered. If Finch was an enemy agent, he was very inefficient. What was he up to?

The man stepping through the doorway, holding several bags, was slightly built, wide-eyed. He moved stiffly, awkwardly; everything about him screamed _This man is not a threat._ Reese rather admired that. It would be useful camouflage to have. 

Reese saw the moment he spotted the rifle. He didn't drop the bags or startle in any way; he simply stopped moving, and then looked--annoyed? "Mr. Reese, I am not a target. Kindly put your weapon away." 

Reese smirked. His head was aching worse than before, but his hands were still steady; he could fire accurately if necessary. "What's in the bags, Agent Finch?" 

"Food and medicine," Finch replied. "You can check them if you want. Although I'd prefer--"

Reese didn't really care what he preferred. "Put everything down, nice and easy. Close the door, and then get on the wall. No sudden movements."

Finch obeyed. His stiffness carried over to the way he leaned into the wall, bracing himself on it with his feet outspread. Back injuries, maybe a spinal fusion? Easy enough to fake, to draw in a mark. Reese pushed himself up, waited the dizziness out, approached carefully. He left the rifle by the bed and kept the Glock in hand. 

Finch stayed very still as Reese patted him down quickly, efficiently. He was carrying nothing besides a wallet and a pocket square. "What drew your suspicion? I suppose the pass phrases were incorrect?" he said thoughtfully. 

Reese could have grinned at his sheer nerve, if he'd had the energy. "Not incorrect. Just a few weeks outdated."

"Hm. Well, in my defense, I had to guess at what time frame you're experiencing right now."

Reese didn't understand that; let it pass, busy investigating the bags. Food and medicine, as Finch had said. Or at least he thought so; as he bent to examine them more closely, everything went white and blurry at the edges, and he swayed. 

He blinked, and Finch's hands were on him, one gripping his arm, holding him steady; one on his forehead. "I thought as much. You're burning up--"

He'd let his guard down, somehow. He took a quick step back, snapped the Glock back into position; on the defensive, instead of the offensive, never the best idea. Finch froze. Up close, his wide-eyed look wasn't annoyed so much as worried. "John, please. You're very ill. You need to let me help."

"I don't know who you are," Reese said calmly, not moving. "I don't know where the rest of my team is, or where I am, or why I've been brought here. You want to help? You can give me some answers."

"You know me as Harold Finch." Finch wasn't taking his eyes off the gun, trained on his heart. Reese figured he could probably add "terrified" to his mental list of Finch's expressions. "You're in New York City. You're sick and running a very high fever, which is probably why you're confused."

"You're not my handler. Why do I have your voice in my ear? Where's my partner?" 

"No, I'm not your handler. I'm--" Finch shifted slightly, raised his eyes to meet Reese's. "A friend. We work together. You're not with the CIA anymore." 

Understanding hit him in a rush. He felt light-headed suddenly, divorced from reality. He grinned at Finch, letting his gun drop for the first time. Finch looked almost more alarmed than before. "Would you please lie down before you fall down?"

"Sure," John agreed, and turned away. He managed to get the gun back into the nightstand before he collapsed onto the bed. 

Finch was bringing the bags, approaching slowly. "Not that I don't appreciate the change of heart, but what brought it on so suddenly? Do you remember me now?"

"No." The bed was cool; he turned his face into the pillow for the relief it brought. "Doesn't matter."

"I beg to differ." Finch was talking more, but John was too tired to make out individual words anymore; he floated for a while, listening to the background noise until suddenly Finch's hand was under his head, lifting it up. "Mr. Reese. Can you take this? It's something for the pain and fever."

He swallowed the pills, and then drank the water Finch urged on him. Finch let his head down gently, and he felt something cold at the back of his neck. He reached for it; the movement was clumsy, uncoordinated, like he wasn't really inhabiting his body. Another tell.

"It's just a wet washcloth. I'm trying to bring your temperature down. Honestly, you'd probably benefit from a cold shower, but you don't look in any shape to stay upright, and I certainly couldn't support you." Finch had another washcloth in his hand, but trying to watch his movements made John dizzy, and he closed his eyes as Finch placed it on his forehead. 

"Would you like something to eat?"

"No." Finch seemed to want to argue with that, and John turned toward the buzz of his voice and fell asleep.

****************

A fit of wrenching coughing woke him. He struggled up, trying to catch his breath, and by the time it ended Finch was by his bedside again, helping to support him. "I was afraid of that," he said. He sounded…angry, as if he were taking John's illness personally. "It sounds as if it's got into your lungs. I heard you wheezing, earlier. That won't help your fever any." He looked at his watch. "Speaking of, it's time for another dose."

He eased John back down to the bed, and John watched him limp away. The grey light was still coming through the wall of windows, but Finch had turned on lamps in the kitchen and sitting area; pools of golden light reflecting off of the walls and pale wood. 

There was a smell permeating the apartment, too; some kind of soup, John thought. Finch returned, followed John's gaze to the stove. "It's not, strictly speaking, homemade, of course, but Mrs. Sobieski at The Corner Noodle assured me that it was her great-grandmother's recipe. Guaranteed to cure whatever ails you."

John grinned up at him. "Smells good. Don't think I'm hungry just yet, though; maybe later." He was still aching everywhere, bone-deep; Finch put a hand to John's forehead again and looked at him crossly, like it was his fault, and John had to smile again. Then Finch helped him sit up a bit to take the medicine and drink the water, and despite the pain John looked at the warm apartment and smelled the simmering soup on the stove and felt something he couldn't really identify.

"It's usually Jessica," he explained to Finch, who looked up, startled. "That's why I didn't understand, at first."

"What's usually Jessica?"

"When I get hurt. While I'm out. It's nice..until I wake up." He didn't want to think about that, the inevitable moment of reality reasserting itself, usually in the midst of blood, mud, terror. He wondered where he was, what had happened to him this time; where the pain was really coming from. Would they finish the mission and come back for him in time, or would he just bleed out somewhere? Somehow that possibility didn't bother him these days as much as it used to. It might be nice, someday, to just…not wake up. 

"You think I'm not real," Finch said slowly. "A hallucination?" He held John steady, lowering him carefully back to the bed, wincing as John's weight pulled on him. 

"You said you were a friend," John reminded him. "But you know what I am, so that's not right. But it was what you said about the CIA that made me realize." Another fit of coughing hit. When it was over he could only lie there, wheezing, shivering. Finch pulled the covers over him and helped him turn on his side. When he could breathe easier, he finished the thought. "I know too much, I've _done_ too much. The only way I'm ever getting out is in a body bag." 

"I see." Finch's eyes were displeased, his mouth tight. 

John hadn't meant to hurt his feelings, this odd little man his subconscious had conjured up for him, brave and gentle by turns. "It's okay. That you're not Jessica." That feeling tugged at his chest again, the one he didn't want to look at too closely. "A friend is good. I haven't had one of those in a long time." 

Finch sighed. "You should try to get some more rest, Mr. Reese."

"Okay," John murmured, his eyes already sliding shut. "And thanks, Harold. For taking care of me."

He thought he felt a hand on his shoulder, anchoring him as he fell into darkness. "Always, John."


End file.
